


Gravitation

by kira892



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-08
Updated: 2013-01-08
Packaged: 2017-11-24 03:07:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/629670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kira892/pseuds/kira892
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You’re addicted to the way he touches you, the way he pins you down and squeezes pleasure out from every fiber of you. You’re downright mad about the thrill you get from when he lets you fight back and even willingly lets you win on occasion when you tussle between the sheets for dominance though he could so easily overpower you physically.</p><p>You’re also addicted to the gentle curves of his lips when they mold themselves to yours, the soft, sensual whispers in your ear, the passionate caresses and the heat in his eyes that makes you want to believe so much that he means it when he says ‘I love you.’</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gravitation

**Author's Note:**

> This is the sequel to my other cronkri fic [Tap on my window, knock on my door](http://archiveofourown.org/works/598803) and is probably the last work I would do for this universe
> 
> inspired by the song Gravity by Sarah Bareilles

**grav·i·ta·tion**

/ˌgraviˈtāSHən/

Noun

| 

  1. Movement, or a tendency to move, toward a center of attractive force, as in the falling of bodies to the earth.
  2. A force of attraction exerted by each particle of matter in the universe on every other particle.

  
---  
  
   
  
   
  
   
  
Very soon after your horrid… _affair_ with Cronus started— god just the word makes you wince but there’s no denying it now, even you have a limit where you’d have to give in and accept facts for what they are no matter how much they impose on your comfort and your values— and what you have, what you’re _doing_ with him, its definitely an affair. Right after it started, the very first time you woke up next to him with your shirt missing and your pants undone you, as ordinary, less refined people would put it, frankly flipped the fuck out. Paranoia consumed every waking moment and you lived in constant fear that someone would discover  what you’ve done, what you continued to do and what you _still_ do now, more than ever.

But no one gave even the barest hint to having knowledge about your scandalous undertakings…goddamn them. Because if someone knew, or rather if someone had known earlier, maybe it would’ve discouraged you from taking a sip from the devil’s cup, _maybe_ if someone had been there to just tap you on the shoulder, make the frigidly logical, sensible side of yourself _wake_ _up_ and destroy the lesser, more covetous part then perhaps the devil wouldn’t have turned into something as dangerous and as irresistible as Cronus Ampora.

Wellp it’s too late for that now, Cronus is an evening ocean and you’ve already drowned, your corpse trapped by the unforgiving tides, an eternity away from shore.

You wonder how the hell you’ve managed to let yourself sink this deep and it surprises you that you don’t have an answer.

 ** _You_** , Kankri Vantas, the arrogant twat who has strived for the mastery of intorvertial genius don’t have the faintest clue.

Or at least that’s the version you’d decided to go with after the words flew out of Porrim’s mouth.

She knows.  _obviously_.  She’s probably known all along because seriously, that girl abuses the privilege of having known you all her life far too much and has opted to see it as her right to treat you like her ward. Aranea knows too, probably through Meenah, Cronus’ reluctant “bestfriend” of sorts whom he never keeps secrets from even though she could care less what the heck was going on in his life. Meulin knows too, because what _doesn’t_ she know? She probably knows more about people’s personal lives than an astrophysicist knows about the solar system. You think Rufioh does too, or at least he suspects it, he, you and Cronus all grew up with the same group after all, and he’d always been just a wee bit closer to the two of you individually. He still is, sort of, he’s about as close to you as anyone who isn’t Porrim is. He tolerates you more than others do if that counts for anything and he’s a heck of a lot more polite about it too, so you talk to him often. He also plays Hockey for the University with Cronus and given that the two of you hadn’t ever really been as discreet as you would’ve liked about your secrets, you’ve gone ahead and presumed that the little furrow that constantly appears on Rufioh’s brow these days whenever he spoke to you is the product of bafflement.  It looks stunningly similar to the ones that had all been present in Porrim, Aranea and Meulin’s faces when they asked you varied versions of the same thing.

_Why?_

Why do you stay with him?

Just…why?

The world can rest assured you have asked that question of yourself too, many, _many_ times.

You thought it to yourself when his fist left a dent on the wall a mere few inches next to your head and his shouts rattled the walls as you threw on his shirt and left his apartment, slamming it behind you so hard, the force of it rattled your entire arm.  You’d have carved it onto your arm as you stared up at the ceiling above his bed, naked, bruised and bitten, Cronus slotted against your side, arms curled around you protectively like he hadn’t practically just assaulted you, emotionally, verbally…you’d say physically and sexually too but then you’d be lying. One couldn’t take advantage of the willing. You _hate_ yourself for it but…Cronus did not and hasn’t ever _forced_ you into anything you didn’t really want to do. There was never anything hesitant in the way you bit at his lips and scratched bright red lines all over his skin. And it wasn’t like you’d never hurt _him_ in some measure or other.  He himself has taught you self defense when you were both younger, he’d pointed out the sharpness of your knees and your elbows and taught you how to use them to your advantage.

You figured out how to utilize them fully while you’re having rough, angry make-up sex and the other person is trying to dominate every inch of you by yourself.

You’ve thought about it and thought about it, you still do and for the most part, you’ve just gone in disjointed circles.

You used to think it was the sex. There was something about being stripped and vulnerable to an incredibly high degree, to _that_ degree, that revealed people and Cronus, Cronus was as volatile as the sea and almost as alluring. You’re addicted to the way he touches you, the way he pins you down and squeezes pleasure out from every fiber of you. You’re downright _mad_ about the thrill you get from when he lets you fight back and even willingly lets you win on occasion when you tussle between the sheets for dominance though he could so easily overpower you physically.

You’re also addicted to the gentle curves of his lips when they mold themselves to yours, the soft, sensual whispers in your ear, the passionate caresses and the heat in his eyes that makes you want to believe _so_ _much_ that he means it when he says ‘ _I love you.’_

You know he doesn’t, you _feel_ it when he fucks you through his mattress. You’re obsessed with perfection and arrogant enough to pursue it but he sees the giant crack in your reflection and it practically radiates from him whenever he ties you up and strips you down. He loves breaking you to pieces, loves how he fits so easily into the chinks in your armor like he’d been born to know them for the purpose of shattering it piece by piece.

There’s no _trace_ of love there, by definition, it was nothing but sadism. He gets off on the knowledge that you’re imperfect, even doubly so because you try so hard, too hard. He’s convinced that you’re like him, every bit the arrogant, cruel, selfish child that he is.

You don’t stay with him because of that, definitely not, because you _hate_ that.

You hate that he’s right. and you hate that he can get you to admit it to yourself.

So if not that then what is it then?  Your reason?

The other side of the coin, the capricious Cronus who uses the word love, and all the weight it carries so convincingly it makes your head hurt to figure out how he can be the same bastard who lives to destroy your sand castles. 

You’re only human and humans are weak, cowardly beings who would rather stare at the shapes shadows form on the walls because the sun was too bright for them. It’s human nature to hold on to illusions, be addicted to them because no matter how fleeting or thin they are, they still shield them from the bleak, ugly truth.

Your truth is, that you don’t even have a single shred of righteousness that you pretend to have on a daily basis. Your truth echoes in the pang in your chest when you force the mask of indifference on your face, it’s the pain, the knife that twists in your gut when that small whisper in the back of your head reminds you that you actually _do_ care what people think of you. a lot. that it _does_ bother you that people hate you, that you _hate_ being lonely, that it _hurts_ you to stand in a crowd of people and still feel like you’re alone. Your truth is that you would throw away self-awareness, wisdom, wit, glory, _everything_ that you could want, you’d throw it to the ground and stomp all over it if someone just told you they’d be yours.

Cronus feeds you beautiful lies and you used to think that was it, that is the core of it, that’s what drags you back to the ground whenever you try to fly away. But it’s more complicated than that it had to be, lies could only keep you happy for so long until all that exaggerated, artificial sweetness rots your teeth and poisons your insides.

You’d know, there’s a section of your life that illustrates that concept so well it hurts.

 It’s labelled “Latula”

Now, one would probably wonder, if it’s not the lies then what is it?

Well, maybe the hope that there’s some truth to those lies?

It’s a dangerous thought but its invaded your head so many times that its made a permanent corner of it its home and the longer it stays there the less you feel afraid of it, the less you doubt it.

You’d deduced that sadism was Cronus’ motivation for wanting you, for doing all the things he does. And you wouldn’t have put it past him before he’d taken a sledge hammer to that crack in your reflection and shattered the mirror so that you’re forced to stop seeing what you want to see and look down at the _real_ thing, the real you.  But after he had and he’d successfully brought you down to his level you started thinking. Cruelty could only take you so far.

…love…you hesitate to associate the word with Cronus but… _it_ …it is a _vicious_ motivator.  You can’t feel true pain without love, without having that wonderful, ethereal feeling, you don’t know what pain _is_ until you’ve had that forcibly ripped from you and you’re left to grovel at life’s feet, prepared to do anything, absolutely _anything_ to feel it again. People kill in the name of love, so then…why couldn’t it be so simple for someone to do something as stupid and simple as hurting the one they “love” for the very thing they want them for?

Cronus hasn’t always been the way he is, make no mistake he’d always been a little shit but he wasn’t quite so bitter, not in the painfully authentic, sad way that he is now.  You grew up with him and you’d always listened to him every time he told you about his family, how dissatisfied he was with them and how _unhappy_ they were with him, you sympathized with his plight because you knew what it was like to be the neglected older child. You treated him delicately when he told you he thought he was genderqueer and even _supported_ him through it even though you _knew_ that he was faking it for attention. You didn’t begrudge him for it because you would probably never forget that one time when he phoned you while he was drunk, you’d both been 12, _12_ , it was 5 am in the morning and he called you because he was so fucking smashed he was hysterical.

No one ever believed him when he said he took booze from his dad’s stash all the time  and that included you but you _knew_ when he called you he wasn’t faking it for proof. You’d sympathized with him but you never really took his problems seriously until that morning when you heard his voice, raw and broken as it fumbled through words, trying to recount the way it felt as his family celebrated Eridan ‘s birthday. He talked about how humiliating it was to be outshone by his younger brother, how angry it made him that no one in his family even seemed to want to _look_ at him while Eridan was in the room, and how much it _hurt_ when he retaliated to the pain like anyone would, by being his usual, rude, mouthy self and got mocked and yelled at for it.

You listened to him and it hurt _you_ because for the first time you _really_ understood. It was so easy to recognize yourself in others, because humans are all selfish by nature even when they don’t mean to be, its all me me me me until you get a wake up call like your friend drunk calling you at 5 am and hearing a loud thud before the line goes dead.  Humans are all wired to see what they want to until _reality_ really comes crashing through, it happened to you when you phoned Cronus’ house phone out of worry and find out the next morning that he’d basically jumped from the window in his room and broke his arm and his leg.

He got into so much trouble with his parents for getting drunk it was ridiculous.

You never told them or anyone else that Cronus said _sometimes I really just want to fucking die Kankri, just to see if anyone would give a shit you know? but I’m always too scared. I’m not that scared now, maybe I’ll try it._ right before the line went dead.

He’s so different now, a bit smoother and a hell of a lot better at concealing the loneliness, the desperation to be noticed but there’s still moments, extremely rare and incredibly subtle when he just gets this look on his face that only ever appears because of two things: one, he thinks no one is looking and two: when you hit a nerve. The world knows that Cronus Ampora is the farthest thing from a wonderful person, its even a stretch to say that he’s a pleasant person  and you know it hurts him to know that you were there when he threw himself out the window but even _you_ think he doesn’t have the right to be so selfish and shallow and all the stupid things he’s turned out to be because the world fucked him over when he was a kid and basically stunted his chances at happiness until he got so desperate that he totally destroyed them himself.

You were his closest friend and you pitied him so much because you had Porrim and didn’t think of him the same.

But you’re here, you’re still here. You’re probably the only person who hasn’t walked away from him and he would do _anything_ to keep you. Because he needs you, you feel it in the way he holds you when he thinks you’re asleep, the kisses he presses to the back of your neck , its in the look on his face when you wake up with your hands bound to the headboard and he’s sitting on the window seat, staring at you with his sketchpad on his lap and his pencil in his hand.  You used to think it was only amusement, the silly, immature joy he feels in annoying you. But looking back on it now, the smirk on his face as you prattled on about how offensive and inappropriate it was to tie somebody up when they’re sleeping so you can sketch nudes of them without their consent had a trace of something resembling fondness in it.

It could be a false memory, after all you’ve been reliably informed that you’re really good at only seeing what you want to see. But still…

You can’t look back and just see the shit-eating grins and the malicious smirks anymore.

Not after he found you furious and anguished over Latula, not after waking up cradled in his arms in the backseat of his car where he doesn’t say anything to taunt you, lets you keep his jacket and calls you a few hours later to check if you’re okay. 

The coin didn’t fully flip and remain on one side just because you were heartbroken but he was still considerably less…Cronus.

He still isn’t you think. He’s still the annoying, disrespectful jerk who refuses to tolerate your petty bullshit that’s started to decline more and more in their appearance around him with the intensity of his aggressively offensive nature but nowadays you find yourself in his place more and more often. Sometimes he’s the one to invite you there and other times, to your constantly growing surprise, you bring yourself there in order to seek him out. You’d think its because you’re having a hard time coping with the damage Latula’s done to your life but you don’t end up in Cronus’ bed these days because your wounds hurt and you need him to patch them back again with his indulgence.  You go to him and he invites you over even when you’re not bleeding out over your losses.

You don’t like to think about why and you don’t like acknowledging the fact that the answer could simply be staring both of you in the face on those kind of days, when you don’t immediately fall asleep after the two of you finish, when he kisses you on the forehead and slips back into his pants to wander around the apartment idly while you take a short little catnap on his bed, where you’re growing to be alarmingly more comfortable in everytime you sleep in it. You refuse to acknowledge it because it’s so easy to read that whether you acknowledge it or not is irrelevant, _its there._   There in the way he always seems to know when you’ve woken up and comes back in the room with two cups of coffee. It’s there in the near companionable silence that blankets you both when he pulls out his sketchpad again and produces boring sketches of you holed up under his sheets, curled around your cup of coffee. It’s in the idle chat you engage in while he draws, that suggests that you’re more than just a heart-broken, selfish addict and he’s more than just your fix.

Of course things are far from perfect, Cronus isn’t your new Latula, you still fight and things still get ugly when you do.  There’s a particularly bad incident when he’d more or less invited himself to your home because your family would all be out until late, he’d done it claiming that he wanted to go because he had nothing better to do. Predictably, you end up tangled with him on your bed, hands lost in his hair while his went to work trying to get your sweater off you. He just succeeds in getting it out of the way when your phone rings. You hadn’t altered the tone she’s customized it to play whenever she called you and you almost immediately shove Cronus off you to answer it.

It’s the first time Latula’s made any effort to speak to you after the answering machine incident and your reactions were almost involuntary. Cronus’ face goes through an interesting slideshow of emotions while you’re on the phone, none of them positive. His eyes burn holes through you the entire time and he’s quick to accuse the second you hang up.

“Really Kankri? After all the shit she put you through, she calls you and you fall all over yourself to talk to her.”

You glare at him disapprovingly, pulse racing. “Answering one’s phone is the polite thing to do in this culture.”

You both know that isn’t your reason for picking yours up. Cronus laughs and you can almost see his hackles rising. He gets this glint in his eyes that appears when he’s ready for a fight and your fingers curl themselves into fists as you prepared yourself for the worst.

“What did she even say hmm? Apologize? How fucking quaint. Does she even know, hmm? That she’s turned you into such a sad little boy that you-” he doesn’t finish his sentence, just grabs your  wrist and shoves your sleeve up, tracing a line with his fingertips over the lengthy row of tiny lines up your forearm, some of them still fresh.

You shove him away, defensive. “Please shut up, you don’t know-”

“Don’t I? I’ll give you some credit, I know you. Those,” he says, gazing pointedly at your wrist and raising his eyebrows. “Aren’t just for her but she sure as hell caused a lot of them.”

You grit your teeth and you take a deep breath. “Latula did in fact call to apologize, not that its any of your business.”

“It is my business!”

“Yeah?! How the fuck so?!”

You’re both surprised by your sudden ferocity but you just keep glaring up at him, lips pursed tight. He’s right, again and you hate it. Latula doesn’t love you anymore, she never did and you’re sure you weren’t totally imagining the lack of genuine remorse in her tone when she called you and you hate it. You’re angry and hurt and you’re rapidly losing control over your calm but you don’t care.

A flash of anger flickers over Cronus’ face before it twists in a way that almost makes it look like he was in pain then he slips out of your bed.  “You just don’t get it do you?”

You just stare at him, waiting, not understanding but he doesn’t elaborate, just slips back into his jacket and grabs his keys from your bedside table. Cronus scoffs and shakes his head, gaze dropping down to his shoes before it finds your face again. “Sometimes I really wonder which of us is more fucked up, you or me…maybe I should just let it be you.”

A cold flash of something you don’t recognize shoots through your chest and it grows in intensity when Cronus averts his gaze, his jaw clenched tight and just…walks away. He doesn’t try to pick another fight, doesn’t prod at your wounds so the anger overpowers the pain, he just walks away without a single word, without even a single glance back.

 

He’s wrong, you _do_ get it.  Or at least you think you do and you just ignore it because you’re scared of what it could mean that you were addicted to them both, him and Latula but when _he_ walked away from you, you go after him.  Fear and confusion sits in a heavy ball in your gut and they fight for space in your soul when you walk into his apartment, find him shirtless, going at his punching bag like his life depended on its destruction and you feel something else swell in your chest at the sight of him, like you hadn’t seen him in months as opposed to weeks.

“You should lock your door,” you comment after several more long moments of watching him aim trained punches and kicks at the poor, inanimate slab of stuffing that was taking the brunt of his anger…or at least you hoped he was angry. Because if he wasn’t, like he wasn’t when he walked out of your room then…you don’t know what you’d do. You can guess what will happen and you don’t want to think about it.

Cronus’ punches slow down and you lean on the doorway, crossing your arms over your chest as you watch the muscles stretched taught over his shoulder blades move. You’re mesmerized by the faint movements of the huge tattoo emblazoned on his skin. It’s a pair of wings you think, with what seems to be the bottom half of a star right in the middle. You don’t know if it was supposed to mean anything or if Cronus just had it done because it was pretty.

Finally he stops and your eyes remain on his shoulders, eyes fixed on the small movements of his back as he tried to get his breathing to slow down. His skin is shiny, glistening with sweat and when he twists around to look at you over his shoulder, you see that his hair is damp with it too. A few blonde strands were draped over his face messily ad he sweeps them back with a bandaged hand.

He raises an eyebrow at you. “What for?” he asks, cracking his knuckles loudly.

You let the tiniest of smirks quirk your lips. “Point taken. Oh, you aren’t going to beat me up for intruding your living space without invitation are you?”

Cronus smirks back at you but there’s nothing playful about it. “That depends, what did you come here for?”

You stare at him, unable to answer and your heart slowly speeds up in your chest as the seconds go by and he just stares back at you, unblinking, intense. With a slow, careful breath you peel yourself away from the door, shutting it behind you silently and you hope that he doesn’t actually punch you when you walk over to him. For a second you think you might be brave enough to say something but it lasts for just a second, then you look away and you do what you do best.

“Does it work?” you ask, running a hand curiously along the battered fabric of Cronus’ punching bag. “Hitting something, does it really let it out? Anger and any other sort of negative, bothersome feelings?”

“Why do you ask?” Cronus replies.

“Well,” you’re wearing one of those sweaters that has a flap on the insides of the sleeves so you can button it up at your elbows and you turn the arm you have braced on the punching bag so that the inside of your forearm is facing him. There’s been quite a bit of an addition to your little collection since you saw him last and if Cronus notices he doesn’t comment on it.

“I wouldn’t know now would I?” you ask.

Cronus watches you carefully, like he’s trying to figure something out then he tilts his head. “You wanna try?”

You blink at him, curious and wary but you nod and obediently follow when he gets behind you and takes hold of your wrists, leveling them in front of you so that your arms are bent defensively in front of you. You clench your fists and you widen your stance when he nudges at your feet with his. You don’t say a word but you nod eagerly as Cronus murmurs how proper punches are executed while guiding your fists through the motions they’re supposed to do.

“Don’t hit too hard, you could break something because,” Cronus begins but pauses, sliding his fingers up a bit to rub at the smooth, bare skin of your knuckles.  He scoffs. “What am I even saying? You didn’t even cry when you broke your whole fucking hand trying to smash Damara’s fucking teeth in. Just aim for the bag and not the floor alright chief?” he asks.

You smirk a little to yourself and it falls off your face right after when Cronus drops his hands and bends closer to you, almost til his lips were touching your ear. “How pissed were you when you found out about ‘tula and her brainded fuckstick?”

“Quite.” You reply curtly.

“Kay, punch the bag like its Mituna’s face.”

You try, quite pathetically and Cronus snorts out a laugh. “Like you mean it Kanny.”

“Come on, I know you _hate_ it with every fibre of self-righteous fuck power you’re capable of, that she chose _him_ over you. Hurts don’t it? If you could’ve seen the way you used to _look_ at her, specially when we were kids. Wait, what am I saying, I guess you never stopped looking at her like that, until now.”

You feel your fists tighten almost out of their own accord and Cronus’ fingers find your waist.

“I bet it makes you _furious_ , why did she even bother to lead you on that far?”

You let another fist fly and this one sends a nice, sound _“thump!”_  echoing through the apartment.

“The one person who was supposed to be yours and she threw you away just like everyone else did. For someone that doesn’t even deserve her.” Cronus continues, one hand reaching up to nudge at your other elbow, the one that hasn’t thrown a punch yet. You fix that problem immediately and the bag sways from the force you’ve put behind the blow. Your knuckles sting when you pull your arm back to the defensive stance.

“It makes you mad doesn’t it?”

It does, it really does and you let the anger flow through your shoulders, down your arms and out through your fists, landing hit after hit despite the growing pain in your knuckles.

“You know what I think makes you the angriest though?”

Cronus practically whispers in your ear as you stand there, catching your breath, knuckles swollen and bright red.

“No matter how much she hurt you, you can’t hate her. Sure you’re fucking angry but you don’t hate her.”

You grit your teeth and you swing at the punching bag one last time with an angry grunt.

Cronus waits while you get your breath back and when he speaks again, his fingers clench down briefly against your sides. “Did it work?”

You nod. “Yes.”

“Now  you know why I’m standing here, perfectly calm when you’re here right the fuck in front of me.”

You actually stop breathing and in the moment when your soft panting abruptly cuts off, you can swear the entire universe stopped with you.

“I can’t hate you.” Cronus murmurs and then laughs bitterly. He takes a step back and when he does, you move with him, spinning on your heel and grabbing hold of his arm.  He doesn’t speak and you don’t either. You try but your lips could only do so little as choke on one word before you shut your mouth and cop out, sliding your hand higher up his arm and stretching up a bit to press your mouth to his. Cronus is unresponsive at first, detached and rigid but you keep kissing him until he kisses back, until he’s practically devouring your mouth and reaching an arm down to your waist to roughly tug you closer.

You feel how damp and hot he is through your sweater and the musky scent of his cologne mixed with his sweat fills your senses. When you pull away you feel dazed and feverish, your eyes don’t seem to want to open the whole way anymore and you can’t get them to look anywhere but at Cronus’ red, slick mouth.  Your arms have somehow found their way around his neck and you shiver when yanks you even closer and lightly grinds his hips against yours, making you feel that he was hard already.

“I can’t hate you because you keep pulling this shit. And well…because you’re you and I’m me and I guess we’re doomed to just keep doing this shit forever aren’t we Kankri?”

You don’t answer him because you don’t want to and because you know that you don’t really have to. Instead you just reach up to tug him back down into a kiss and you wrap your legs around him when he reaches down and picks you up.

You don’t make it to the bed, you leave a trail of clothes to the wall just beside it where he fucks you, long, rough and desperate. You think you ought to feel bad, here, doing this, proving him right. You think that despite the glaring imperfections, Cronus deserved something better than this.

But when he picks you up and lays you down on his bed and kisses the rapidly developing bruises on your knuckles, you lead his face back to yours and you kiss him and you know that regardless of whether or not he deserves this, _you_ , you sure as heck won’t be letting him go soon.  He was your gravity, he’ll keep dragging you down and you would always, _always_ go back to him.

 


End file.
